by time and handling. There has been much discussion concerning this parchment, and many pages have been written to prove or disprove its antiquity. The Samaritans claim that it is thirty-five hundred years old, and they give the name of the writer, but he is not there now to swear to the truth of the statement. As Sergeant Buzfuz would say, “his is in itself suspicious.” That it is very ancient there is no doubt, and the reader may take his choice as to date of manufacture. The “Doubter” says that he saw in the parchment the watermark “Eagle Mills”—Jones and Smith, encircling a flying eagle with a shield in his claws. But I don’t believe him.
We pass Gibeah, the ancient Geba, and next come to Bethel, now called Beitin, where Jacob lay down, as you see the Arabs lying now, with the earth for a bed and a stone for his pillow, and dreamed that he saw a ladder reaching to Heaven, and angels ascending and descending upon it. Abraham pitched his tent here, and here was buried Deborah, the nurse of Rachel, under an oak tree, which Jacob had chosen.
We pass Ramah, a heap of ruins, in which a modern village is huddled. Its inhabitants have no higher object than the extortion of “backsheesh” from travellers, and they keep up a steady din of supplications as long as we are in their vicinity. We pass out of the fertile country and come again among the limestone hills, the eternal hills “round about Jerusalem” We are looking anxiously for the Holy City, and finally, as the sun is sinking and the approaching night spreads the shadows over the glens and valleys, we climb the crest of Scopus and look away toward a rounded mountain, crowned with a monastery.
This is the Mount of Olives; nearer to us, and at its feet lies a city with grey walls and with domes and minarets rising above them. Do we need to be told that we are gazing upon Jerusalem?
We halt a moment at the Damascus gate. From one of the Arabs that gather about us, let us borrow the Enchanted Carpet, which may have belonged to his ancestor, celebrated in the Arabian Nights. Seating ourselves upon it, we utter a wish to return to Damascus, and behold, in an instant we are once more in the court-yard of Dimitri’s hotel.
